


welcome home

by watername



Category: SHINee
Genre: Dirty Talk, Humiliation, M/M, cock degradation, photo kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26829961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watername/pseuds/watername
Summary: “I lied. I told him I was looking at a photo of my husband - my accomplished, intelligent husband who I didn’t deserve at all. Not a dumb, pathetic boy who can’t keep a thought in his head, " Kibum says.The blood rushes to Jinki’s cheeks as he feels the familiar, overwhelming burn of embarrassment and insult. His whole world is turning soft and pink and malleable with him.
Relationships: Kim Kibum | Key/Lee Jinki | Onew
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34
Collections: Kinktober Bingo 2020





	welcome home

**Author's Note:**

> written for the summerof5hinee kinktober event: video/picture/filming kink, humiliation, dirty talk.

The photo is abstract in close-up, a constellation of blurry moles and freckles across a pale swatch. 

If Jinki lays it across the top of his naked thigh, it’s almost a perfect match. 

_ 1 _ reads the ink on the back, if he chose to look. Its edges are soft over the years, just over a decade since Kibum clicked the button. A sweet memento of their relationship: the only one of its genre Jinki gets to keep.

The rest of them are wherever Kibum sees fit. One morning he woke to find them laid out in neat rows and columns on the kitchen table. A chronological review showed the gradual dissolution of Jinki’s state of mind. All thoughts discarded from him at that moment, the plan executed as perfect as Kibum’s smile.

He’s made jokes about putting all his photos into flipbooks, something he can tuck into his back pocket beside his wallet and phone. A bland, generic cover to them, so he can review Jinki’s spread form in meetings and on lunch breaks. No one will know what’s behind his smile is his husband of ten years, deep in subspace, eyes glassy with arousal. 

Jinki only gets to keep this one, this innocuous close-up. Beyond the edges is the hem of pale pink shorts pushed into a wrinkled mess. The story that preceded it: Kibum’s large hand sliding possessively up from his knee, his other hand clutching the camera and pressing the  _ click _ . It doesn’t include Jinki’s pleading erection, highlighted by the bunched-up, thin material. It doesn’t include his furious sobs when Kibum finally lets him release.

Jinki clears his throat and puts the photo to the side. Kibum will be home soon enough from his latest trip, peppered throughout with texts and the more typical photos of the well-heeled traveler, sustained on long phone calls in which he complained loudly and often about the assholes he was forced to do business with, to start, and ending with quiet  _ i love you _ ’s and the even sound of sleeping Jinki has to hang up on. Welcoming him home is enough of a pleasure on its own, regardless of the shade. They’ve toasted his return with soft nights in, cuddling in bed; going out to Kibum’s favorite restaurant and Jinki’s favorite bar, pleasant tipsiness and goofy flirtations like they’re near-strangers again, only imagining falling into bed together.

They could celebrate along the lines of the photo, which Jinki would prefer tonight. Kibum had sent him a photo of his own earlier, himself seated in the airplane. His eyes were sharp and intelligent above the mask. After the airplane would be the taxi that took him home to Jinki, and he had received a quick text assuring him he had landed safely over an hour ago.

Lost in his thoughts, he’s only brought out of it by the sound of a key turning in the door. The stiffness of his movements belie how long he had been adrift in his own wonderings; he sputters along in his mind trying to bring it back to the here and now. He slips on his socked feet, victim of the wood flooring Kibum praised when they first saw the place. The hallway is lined with picture frames of their life together, incredible artwork Kibum picks with care, and the odd plant. At the end of it he sees a dark head bent forward, no doubt setting his bags on the floor. Jinki’s heart patters that furious, familiar rhythm of relief and pleasure from seeing Kibum. 

“Hey you,” Kibum says as soon as he sees him. He wears a small smile that Jinki meets with a bigger one that only disappears when their kiss takes its place. It reappears as soon as Kibum pulls away slightly, immediate need to touch satisfied. The bag still on Kibum’s shoulder is starting to fall down to his elbow. Jinki goes to save it and put it on the counter. 

“Was your trip good?” he asks. “You want to go take a shower? I can start putting your things away.”

From behind him, Kibum makes a noncommittal noise that Jinki turns to decipher. 

Kibum holds one of his photos in his palm, careful only to touch the edges. Otherwise it would grease up the image: a slightly younger Jinki, his lips bitten red, a tear formed at the corner of his eye. 

“Oh,” he says. Kibum was never inclined to slow plays or insinuations, and his lack of patience is only amplified after weeks apart. He should have seen this coming, but Jinki always makes room for him to feel otherwise. Sometimes it makes him a little slow. 

Kibum carefully reaches around him to put the photo on the counter. He lays a kiss at the side of Jinki’s neck, nosing away the soft collar of his sweater. 

“Do you want to?” he asks. His breath skirts across Jinki’s skin teasingly. Jinki nods and Kibum closes the distance to press a chaste, sweet kiss once more before he pulls back and they begin.

“I was looking at that on the way home. I had to lie to the driver about what it was, when he asked. You know what I told him?”

Jinki shakes his head, and Kibum tuts. 

“I told him I was looking at my husband - my accomplished, intelligent husband who I didn’t deserve at all. Not a dumb, pathetic boy who can’t keep a thought in his head.”

The blood rushes to Jinki’s cheeks as he feels the familiar, overwhelming burn of embarrassment and insult. His whole world is turning soft and pink and malleable with him.

“Can you do something if I ask you to?” Kibum says. Jinki’s tongue is dry, so he nods quickly, eyes to the floor. “I need to set something up and not have it spoiled by clumsy hands. Go get dressed for me the way I like. You can remember that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” he says. Kibum starts at his response, and Jinki can sense the doubting, incredulous curve of his smile, the burning edges of it. 

“If you can manage that, then you can wait until I say so. You can come when you’re called.”

“Yes,” Jinki says again, and when Kibum kisses him in dismissal it’s hard, demanding. He hasn’t said a thing about if Jinki can touch himself, but Jinki is dumb but trained well, not about to take the liberty without Kibum’s explicit word. 

Jinki fights the urge to ask for one more kiss, one more soft caress, because he’s missed Kibum so much, but the play has already started, and his options are limited. This is what he wanted, and there will be time for that after. There always is.

* * *

His mind was already lodged in the past, so he digs out the pink shorts. The hem brushes the edges of his palm when he has his arms at his side. They leave his legs bare and shyly exposed, and what is covered is thin and wispy. He pulls his socks off next, flexing his toes cautiously against the cold floor. Last to adjust is his sweater and shirt, gone in a single swoop and deposited in a pile on the chair in the corner. He’s hungry for the embarrassment, the vulnerability and pathetic sight of his arms crossed protectively across his chest, the involuntary disclosure of his belly muscles jumping at Kibum’s knowing touch. 

They both would like that. 

The change only takes a few moments; it makes sense Kibum hasn’t called yet, but it doesn’t make his hunger any less. He leans his forehead against the wall, creating a strain that prevents him from wondering too expansively about what Kibum has in mind. It could be anything. Kibum is creative, and smart, even after the years they’ve spent together. This dynamic is reliable, trustworthy in how it plays on each of their needs - Kibum likes to tease, to push. Jinki likes to be diminished, naturally sensitive and retiring. Even so, Kibum tries to find new things that inject the sense of discovery once again. 

It’s okay. They trust each other. They know their boundaries. And even if Kibum will put him off-balance, he will always pull Jinki back. It’s non-negotiable. 

His palms are sweating, he realizes. He rubs them against his side and shivers at the cool brush of air conditioning against his wet skin. It wasn’t on earlier; Kibum must have turned it on. It has the effect he suspects Kibum was seeking - his nipples have stiffened and would brush, sensitive, against any shirt he dared to put on.

Maybe Kibum was trying to keep him from putting a shirt on, but Jinki latches onto this new idea, the awareness of how they would stand out apparent beneath thin, white material. He throws the shirt over his head and takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror, the bashful pale skin exposed on his legs, the dark suggestions dotted on his chest, begging to be tweaked.

He’s a dumb boy, but even a dumb boy can figure out the math that will get him fucked. 

There’s a knock on the door, followed by Kibum’s voice.

“Come out for me.”

Jinki follows his summons, opening the door. Kibum’s hand closes around his and guides him out with determination. At first nothing seems different at all, focused as he is on Kibum, the freshly showered smell of him, the dusting of water around the shell of his ear. But then he pauses, beside their wedding photo. 

Another photo has taken over its corner, Jinki, eyes closed, mouth open to accommodate Kibum’s slender cock. The tip of it rests on his fat bottom lip. The camera flash has illuminated the wetness of saliva on Jinki’s waiting tongue. 

“Something wrong?” Kibum asks, as if he’s stupid for pausing at such a sight. Jinki hasn’t seen that one, but the memory of it comes in a rush. Kibum had been lounging casually on the couch, and Jinki bracketed by his knees, lazily nudging at Kibum’s zipper until he had feigned impatience and relented. The TV had buzzed with meaningless chatter behind him, reflecting off of Kibum’s glasses. The small sounds of the camera on the phone being turned on, the fake shutter sound and flash stuttering his eyes open for a moment. Stars into his vision, fading out into a red and pink miasma as Jinki sunk down the length of Kibum’s cock and swallowed. 

The photo obscures most of Jinki’s body in the original image, replacing his public politesse, neat and purposeful in its placement. 

“A good day,” Kibum says. His voice is so beige he could be talking about either scenario. 

Jinki agrees mutely with a nod, and continues to be towed along, helpless in its Kibum’ wake. He’s given a similar treatment to the other hallway decor, and pauses occasionally to let Jinki stare. It reminds Jinki of a dog owner pausing to let the dog sniff at something utterly ordinary to the owner. So Jinki lingers at this image: of himself, supine, smearing at the corners of his mouth; his legs stretched out, his cock peeking out of his boxers. The last one is one Jinki hasn’t seen before: it’s mostly of Kibum, unlike the rest of them, his face in profile. It’s taken over Jinki’s shoulder, the line of it along the bottom of the frame. He must be seated in Kibum’s lap. He can barely see how his mouth is hanging open, a fringe of hair disarrayed and obscuring even that. Kibum in the photo looks up at him, tenderness in the lines of his face.. 

It’s the edge of Jinki’s climax, it must be - the moment before Kibum lets the interplay’s premise fall apart, the hands that catch Jinki’s descent gentle and tender. 

Kibum took him from their bedroom centuries ago, it seems. The last photo is meant as an out, but Jinki doesn’t want it. Everything else has been steadily building up sturdy walls of self-consciousness in Jinki, like he can hardly bear to be in a body so faithfully and intimately documented.

They reach the living room, where Kibum’s bags have been replaced by more photos, placed with care among their daily items: another on the fridge, another leant against the television. There’s a small, polite display of them on the couch. When Jinki starts towards them silently, he sees the category of them: the dildo by itself, his own fingers spreading his cheeks apart, the slow, methodical entry of it. Jinki remembers the broken sounds that tumbled out of his mouth.

Kibum prompts him, asking if he likes it. By his tone it’s obvious he’s repeating himself. 

“Yes,” he answers, looking at Kibum properly. The other man looks briefly pleased, and just as swiftly replaces it with an airy sense of dismissal. 

“I can do a lot when you’re not here distracting me with your begging,” he says. Jinki flushes again, and Kibum looks at him more critically. His gaze sweeps up and down. He suddenly reaches out to pluck at Jinki’s nipple.

“I like this. You managed to keep blood flowing to what you call a brain long enough.”

Jinki squirms, uncomfortable with the compliment.

“Oh, you think you’re cute. Don’t you?” Kibum asks dangerously. 

Jinki gives a shy shrug, blush crawling down his chest. 

“And do you think being cute and dumb is reason enough to fuck you?” Kibum presses on. He pushes the heels of his hands against Jinki’s hips until he falls to the floor. He scoots clumsily backwards, the rug pulling at the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down and exposing a dark tumble of hair. Kibum only pauses once Jinki’s back is against the couch. He reaches down and out, like he’s going to run long fingers through Jinki’s hair. Instead, he skirts past the contact, an insubstantial phantom suggestion of soothing. One of the photos is plucked between his fingers when he pulls back. He flutters it in front of Jinki’s eyes too fast for him to tell what it is. 

He’s already gasping from excitement, already crumbling into a pink haze.

“I spent my entire trip thinking about this. This - “ he pauses and lets Jinki’s eyes adjust to understand the photo, the half-moon circles left by Kibum’s hands into the thick flesh of his ass. “- pathetic, slutty boy who could barely speak to ask me to fill him up. I asked him what he wanted, and all he could say was  _ yes, yes _ . Pathetic. How he manages to make believe he can function is fucking beyond me.”

A bizarre giddiness sweeps over Jinki. It’s circular, a perfect circular route that takes one moment of humiliation and builds on it. As soon as they knew their limits, and that first photo was taken, printed, pressed into Jinki’s hands by a curiously hopeful Kibum, they would be able to perpetuate. All the divots and grooves of pleasure are well known now, committed in ink that can be pulled out at any time, and send Jinki careening down again. Kibum loves to take the photos, a meticulous record Jinki delights in, knowing they are secure and safely entrusted to Kibum alone. It’s for the two of them, a constancy that shows with every shade their trust and love. 

It roils within him, the eroticism of now, the warm memory of pleasures past, and the steadfast trust Jinki has in Kibum. The tight pressure points of Kibum’s finger against his scalp; the line of his arm as he braces forward; the glint of his eyes - they are all parts of what they’ve built together. And here is Jinki’s role: a pleasurable surrender to sensation, a yielding up of his body, a confession of inadequacy. It’s all Kibum’s to trigger; all Kibum’s to tease out.

In this space, it’s just Kibum and the disparate pieces that may reform into Jinki afterwards. Kibum uses the hand holding the photo to tilt Jinki’s chin back until it’s lying flat on the couch cushion. Distantly, he can hear the sounds of Kibum brushing away the other photos. His eyes focus as he begins to loom over Jinki. There’s a bulge in his pants. Jinki’s mouth starts to water. 

His mouth is already open obediently, but Kibum squeezes, pressing his thumb and fingers on either side to force Jinki’s tongue out, pink and wet. With his other hand, he undoes his belt, button, and zipper. Jinki looks up at him. 

“Too much coordination to ask of you,” Kibum says, and Jinki nods -  _ of course _ . He can’t be counted on. He pushes his tongue out further. 

Kibum releases the grip on his face and moves up to sweep Jinki’s eyelids down, gentle in his touch. His body relaxed, his mouth open and waiting, the first press of Kibum’s cock against his tongue is bliss.

His length is moved in gradual, deliberate motions; he raises to kneel partly on the couch and push his cock further in, to the back of Jinki’s throat. The change in position blankets Jinki’s sense - the smell and taste of his cock, the fresh smell of the shower and soap on his skin; his arm to the one side, balancing, and his leg to the other. Above Jinki is Kibum’s chest, his shoulders, his neck, his lovely face.

It’s what he wanted, when he was waiting, and he could always trust Kibum to know and to bring him to this place. He was more generous than he deserved, to not only press him into the headspace of comfortable dumbness and submission, but to do so in his own artful way that made the descent an easy, inevitable slide. His cock is a hard length in Jinki’s mouth, the weight of his presence intoxicating and smothering. Jinki doesn’t deserve the gift of it. 

He lies there, embarrassed and humiliated just to be in Kibum’s impeccable orbit, even as he yearns to be used in some way, to have his face fucked, to be a cute, dumb afterthought for Kibum to indulge in. As frivolous and empty as could be asked for, that’s what he will be. The humiliation of it all, the unflinching documentation of how long Jinki has sought this out, how long Kibum has tolerated it: it’s warmth, it’s pleasure. 

It’s what he needs, and he opens his mouth wider. He lays slack and free for Kibum to bury his cock in. 

“There he is,” Kibum says roughly. He rewards Jinki with a sweet touch to his cheek. “There’s that sad, slutty boy of mine. You never can hide it, can you, Jinki?”

Jinki shakes his head. He can feel a tear bud to life at the corner of his eyes. Kibum’s thumb lurches out its path so it can streak his skin, another mark to his vulnerability in this moment. 

“I missed you,” Kibum continues on. His voice remains tinged with roughness. Jinki fights not to gag, eager for more. “I missed you so, so much.”

Jinki breathes in through his nose, sharp and keenly aware of his own hardness, the dark streaks betraying his leaking cock. The lights surrounding Kibum’s head make it difficult to see the features of his face, and sting when Jinki tries to see. 

He shouldn’t even be trying to see. He knows it’s Kibum there; he knows the weight of him, the smell of him, better than he knows himself. If Kibum’s here, if Kibum’s is deigning to use him, he has no right to ask for anything else.

He knows well the sound of Kibum approaching the finish, the near erraticism it brings about in his rhythm. There’s no denying it, and he hopes that this’ll be another photo, another memory to cherish and hide away for their future. Jinki’s head is full of fuzzy anticipation for the stagger-shot moment, when Kibum will gasp and fold over, press a kiss to the back of Jinki’s head, guide his cock out of Jinki’s mouth, ask him to swallow like a good boy. And then he can start thinking about his own relief, jerking himself off as Kibum watches, criticism lurking at the tip of his tongue. 

It changes in a moment, though. Kibum pulls out of his mouth and kneels over Jinki’s bare legs. He roughly pulls at Jinki’s shorts, making him cry out in a startle as his own cock is revealed. Kibum smiles, breathless, wolfish.

“Let’s compare,” he says, and Jinki doesn’t understand, not until Kibum presses his own cock against Jinki’s and wraps his hand around it, pumping them both off at the same time. Jinki moans helplessly at the sight, at Kibum’s insistent placement of the two of them together. His cock next to Kibum’s is fat and purpled with pathetic need, and Kibum’s is slender and slick and primed to finish. He could have just let him come after, in the afterthought of Kibum’s usage, a scrap of his own pleasure, but Kibum is continuing to chase after Jinki’s orgasm, refusing to let him go until he collapses. 

What can he do but accede, as humiliating as it is, his own issue pulsing out and coating his dusky hair right alongside Kibum’s. Kibum has his left hand wrapped possessively around the back of Jinki’s neck in a familiar motion even as he shudders through it. A few moments to breathe squeeze their way into this space. The fuzz in Jinki’s head is like steel wool, sharp in its conflicting feelings.

Kibum pulls his hand back and digs into his pocket. The disruption of it pulls Jinki into a sleepy, blinking awareness. 

His other hand, the one sticky with their cum, is held out expectantly. Kibum is his steady ground, his rock. He puts Jinki back together again, when Jinki breaks apart in his hands. 

Gravity is what it is. The shutter of the camera goes off as Jinki’s tongue flickers out to clean up the mess.

He wonders when he’ll get to see that one. 

**Author's Note:**

> it's my first kinktober participation, and I certainly hope it doesn't show.


End file.
